


whistle past the graveyard, even the dead deserve a song

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Archaeology kink, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4171350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His last body would be so ashamed of himself for this but his last body can fuck off because Christ, River is wielding a chisel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whistle past the graveyard, even the dead deserve a song

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the rdficathon. 
> 
> Prompt: The Twelfth Doctor finds out his previous regenerations’ distaste for archaeology has been replaced by this body having a bit of a kink for it. Of course, he can’t admit it to River.
> 
> Story title from Back To You by Twin Forks.

The sheets are cool against his bare skin and the early morning air drifting in through the open windows is even more so. The Doctor frowns, still half-asleep, and reaches blindly for the quilt he knows River keeps at the foot of the bed. His fingers brush against it but it’s quickly snatched away from his grasp. A soft, warm laugh reveals the culprit of the heinous deed and he cracks open one eye to glare at her.

 

River stands at the foot of the bed, already dressed for the day in jodhpurs, tall boots and a shirt she’d nicked from his previous regeneration’s wardrobe, knotted at the waist. She clutches the quilt to her chest and smiles down at him, green eyes twinkling with mischief. “Planning to sleep all day?”

 

“I was,” he grumbles, shutting both eyes again and burying his face in his pillow. It smells like her shampoo, something with coconut. He inhales deeply and sighs out, “Before my wife took the blanket.”

 

“Poor Doctor,” she coos, rounding the bed and brushing the quilt teasingly along his bare legs. He flinches away from her, scowling. “Age finally catching up with you?”

 

He lifts his face from her pillow, turning to blink up at her as she settles onto the edge of the bed beside him. “I think I proved last night that age has nothing to do with it, dear.”

 

Her grin widens and she drapes herself over the length of him, warm curves pressed against his bare skin. “Twice.”

 

He groans, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her closer. Sod the quilt. Using River as a blanket has suddenly become his new favorite method of keeping warm. He buries his face in her neck and sleepily snuffles her hair out of his way, pressing his lips to her pulse point. River squirms against him, carding her fingers through his ruffled hair.

 

“What are you doing out of bed?” He grumbles. “And dressed?”

 

Twisting in his grip so she can straddle his chest and look down at him, River brushes his hair back and trails a fingertip down the bridge of his nose. “I’m leaving for an expedition in an hour.”

 

He freezes, his whole body going cold all over as he stares up at her in horror. “What?”

 

“A dig, darling.” She snorts, leaning down to kiss him softly. “I’m going on a dig. You know, that career you hate where I’m paid to play in the dirt and look for buried treasure?”

 

He relaxes, breathing out through his nose. Christ. He’d thought – no, not thinking of the Library right now. It’s not today and that’s all that matters. He still has days with her, lots and lots of days just like this one. He gradually relaxes his grip on her hips, feeling the knot of dread in his chest slowly come unraveled.

 

Frowning as he recalls what she just said, he tips his head to look up at her. “I don’t hate archaeology.”

 

River snorts, fingertips tickling under his jaw. “Yes, you do, sweetie.”

 

She sounds so certain and he knows he’d been rather vocal about his distaste for the profession in his last body but he’d never really hated it – not once he learned it was the first real decision River ever made for herself without the influence of anyone else. After that, he’d been forced into grudging respect. It still utterly bored him but he could never truly hate something River loved so fiercely.

 

“Let me come with you.”

 

Lips parting in surprise, River gapes down at him in silence. She shifts against his chest, small hands planted on his shoulders to balance herself as she gapes at him. “I’m sorry, what was that? I think I’m hearing things, sweetie.” She grasps his hand in hers, moving it up to her face. “Do I feel warm to you? Do I have a fever?”

 

He huffs, pulling his hand out of hers and rolling his eyes. “I mean it, for some reason. I want to go.”

 

She shakes her head, curls swaying with the movement. “I am not taking you on a dig with me. Remember the last time? You nearly started a riot and got me kicked off my team.”

 

He tuts, tapping his fingers against her thigh. “Punishing me for my last body’s sins? Typical.”

 

River rolls her eyes, swatting his hands away. “Doctor -”

 

He talks right over her. “I don’t remember making you apologize for your indiscretions as Mels.”

 

She sighs loudly, working her jaw in silence as she gazes down at him, like she’s trying to gather her patience. He smirks up at her. “Why would you even want to go?” She finally grinds out through her teeth.

 

Because the only days he has with her are the ones he steals in between his younger self’s visits and those are few and far between the older she gets. Because he wants to spend every moment he can with her. And for some reason, the thought of spending a few days in the desert doesn’t sound as unappealing as it used to.

 

Maybe he’s getting soft in the head. Or maybe he’s quite simply just proud of her. He’s always been proud of her, of course, but in this body it feels different. He shrugs as best as he can with her pinning his shoulders with her strong little hands and mumbles, “I want to be with you.”

 

River softens at that, her eyes warming and thawing away all that suspicion. After another moment of careful study, she groans and drops her head to rest in the crook of his neck, going limp against him, and he knows he’s won.

 

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he turns his face into her hair with a smug grin. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Cross my hearts.”

 

“Fine. But I’m bringing the handcuffs just in case.”

 

He snorts. “I thought you wanted me to behave?”

 

River laughs. “Oh, shut up.”

 

And then she lifts her head and kisses him just to make sure he does.

 

-

 

It’s been two days and if he doesn’t get the hell out of the desert he’s going to go mad. Well, madder. And not because he’s bored. Oh no. He’s so fucking turned on he can barely think properly.

 

It isn’t his usual problem of River bending over in tight trousers and very small shorts either. Granted, that certainly isn’t helping his little predicament but it isn’t the reason he’s taken to hiding in their tent to avoid embarrassing himself either. No, it’s something a little more… shameful. It’s watching River march about making demands of her subordinates and helping her students when they find something. It’s River with a trowel always handy and a roll kit under her arm. It’s River sitting on her knees in the dirt, eyes lighting up as she painstakingly uncovers some find with a little brush.

 

It’s the archaeology itself.

 

It’s actually _turning him on_.

 

The Doctor bites his lip against a groan, watching his wife pull a notebook into her lap and jot something down with a pencil. She glances up to study her latest find again, gesturing with one hand as she explains its origins, estimated age, and most likely purpose to the students gathered around her. The desert wind picks up, rustling the high ponytail on top of her head. A few stray curls tickle her ears and she tucks them out of the way, eyes drifting back to the page in front of her.

 

She’s just so good at it.

 

She can date a bloody piece of stone just by looking at it and decipher ancient symbols without consulting a book. She has centuries upon centuries of data about civilization after civilization tucked away in her head – and not because she’s a Time Lady and born with the knowledge. It’s because she studied, she read, she learned. He was there – in his last body anyway – and he can remember sitting up late going over her notes with her, making her pots of coffee and finally making her sleep before her exams. River dedicated years of her life to learning everything about this profession inside and out.

 

And the Doctor can’t help but find that a little, well, _hot_.

 

The whole careful process is fascinating, the way these people are so dedicated to preserving the bits of history that would be long forgotten without them. They care. They thirst for knowledge about people who lived before them, the things they can learn from and about them. They catalogue every single thing they find, treating it all like it’s of monumental importance, and when they’re done, they publish their findings so everyone else can remember these long lost cities and people too. Nothing is ever forgotten, not really. Not when there are people like River to make sure everyone remembers.

 

And then after they’ve studied everything they need to, everything they’ve found is all shipped off to museums for the public to look at – people who would never have the chance to see such things otherwise. He _loves_ museums.

 

To his increasingly mounting horror, he loves archaeology too.

 

Shifting uncomfortably, he watches as River sends her students away to their workstations and once more absorbs herself in the task at hand. He loves how immersed she becomes in her findings, the way nothing can tear her away. She pays no mind to the simmering heat, the hot sand, the dry desert air that seems to suffocate absolutely everything. All that matters is the work. And sod it all, why does he find that so attractive?

 

“Sweetie?” He starts guiltily, drawing his gaze away from her capable hands to look at her face. Thankfully, she isn’t looking at him, still focused on the dirt-encrusted object in her hand. “My canteen, please.”

 

He sighs. For the last two days, River has turned him into her personal assistant, following her about for hours at a time. He carries her knapsack from workstation to workstation, holds her canteen and refills it when it’s empty, standing behind her to block the sun when she wants shade. He’s certain she’s both taking advantage of him and trying to get him to crack but she underestimates his patience this go round. And she doesn’t know about his newest little… problem.

 

Getting bored and storming off to the TARDIS? Not going to happen.

 

Rummaging through her knapsack for the canteen, he pulls it out and shakes it, listening for the sloshing of water inside. Satisfied that there’s enough, he considers tossing it to her so he doesn’t have to get close – his wee little problem isn’t quite so wee little at the moment – but there’s a chance he’ll miss and River will kill him if he spills the water right into the sand with a rubbish throw.

 

Gritting his teeth, the Doctor makes the trek to her and holds out the canteen, relieved when River reaches for it blindly, still too absorbed in what she’s doing to pay him any proper attention. “Thank you, sweetie.”

 

He grunts, hovering behind her and reluctant to leave now that he’s close enough to watch her work up close. It’s mesmerizing, like watching Van Gogh paint or watching Hemingway drink until he’s drunk enough to write. It’s genius at work.

 

She tips her canteen, trickling water onto the trinket in her hand, and the Doctor clears his throat, peering over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

 

 

Now she’s going to explain. As if he needs another reason to be even more aroused than he is right now. What is _wrong_ with him?

 

River stops what she’s doing and looks up at him, eyes wide and startled, almost luminescent in the sunlight. “You really want to know?”

 

She looks so pleasantly surprised he feels a surge of guilt that does wonders for the arousal stirring low in his belly. He manages a tight smile and nods once. “Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

 

Her smile widens and she scoots over as if to make room for him in the sand beside her. “Come down here and I’ll show you.”

 

He sits, without hesitation or even a thought, like a snake charmed by the music. River looks pleased, casting him unsure glances out of the corner of her eye with a little smile. She reaches for her roll kit, pulling it toward her and then scooting close enough for him to smell the sand on her skin and in her hair. He swallows and presses a hand to the small of her back, peering over her shoulder.

 

“The water softens the exterior,” she explains, pouring a little more from her canteen. It darkens the sand under the trinket, making it soft and damp. His last regeneration would have immediately been distracted with the notion of building sandcastles and entirely forgotten about boring archaeology. The Doctor rests his chin on River’s shoulder and remains firmly attentive. “It makes it easier to clean without damaging the artifact.”

 

He watches as River sets aside the canteen and picks up chisel, picking away at loose sand and dirt and chipping carefully at the more stubborn spots, worn away by time. Her hand is steady and sure, practiced in its movements. Biting back a groan of frustration, he stifles a wave of embarrassment. His last body would be so ashamed of himself for this but his last body can fuck off because Christ, River is wielding a _chisel_.

 

She glances over her shoulder, peeking at him through her lashes. “Fetch a brush and help me, my love?”

 

His trousers tighten but he nods hurriedly, scrambling away from her and off to find a brush, walking swiftly with his hands balled into fists at his sides. He is definitely, definitely fucked.

 

-

 

The temperature in the desert drops once the sun sets but the Doctor’s body temperature runs hotter than most in the first place and he sprawls out on the bedroll he shares with River in their tent without a stitch on. Hands clenched, he tries to breathe evenly, staring at the glow of the fire on the other side of the canvas.

 

River, her assistants, and her students had all gathered around the roaring fire they’d built for dinner, discussing everything they’d learned that day. River had been in lecture mode and that coupled with her khaki shorts and that damnable pith hat – well, he’s been in here trying to think of un-sexy things for nearly an hour now.

 

“Well. Hello sweetie.”

 

He turns his head to look at River, standing at the entrance to the tent, the flap closing behind her. Hands on her hips and her mouth curling into a smirk, she rakes her eyes over him with ill-disguised glee.

 

“Too hot for you, Doctor?”

 

He glares at her.

 

“Don’t be cross.” She drops her knapsack at her feet. “You’re the one who insisted on coming with me.”

 

“And I’ve been on my best behavior,” he snaps. “As promised.”

 

“Oh?” River smirks, toeing out of her heavy boots and tossing them aside. “Does pressing your erection into my arse while I’m trying to teach you how to uncover an artifact count as good behavior?” He gapes at her. “Good thing you’re not one of my students, Doctor. I’d have to report you.”

 

“You -” He clears his throat, eyeing her uneasily. “You noticed?”

 

“Of course I noticed,” she scoffs, giving him a withering look as she unsnaps her shorts and tugs them down. Her knickers quickly follow and his mouth goes dry. “It was shockingly unprofessional of you.”

 

He scowls. “Sod off.”

 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She raises her brows, grinning widely. Her fingers have started to work on the buttons of her top, each one undone revealing more and more of the tanned flesh beneath. As she shrugs out of it, he realized she hadn’t been wearing a bra today and thanks every imaginary god in the universe he hadn’t been aware of it before now. “I had no idea you felt so passionate about archaeology, Doctor. Have you been a closet enthusiast all this time?”

 

He wants to protest the notion violently and tell her that he is not the slightest bit passionate about anything concerning archaeology except her but it’s absolutely bloody impossible to remember how to speak, let alone argue. River stands before him in nothing but that sodding pith hat and she doesn’t look in any hurry to take it off. He swallows, letting his eyes drift over the gorgeous view in front of him. River is always stunning but here, in their little tent with the firelight flickering warm light against the canvas walls, she takes his breath away.

 

Instead of protesting anything she just said, he only manages a raspy, “It’s growing on me.”

 

River casts her gaze to his lap, eyebrow rising. “It’s not the only thing, honey.”

 

“Your fault,” he grumbles. “You and your bloody brushes.”

 

To his body’s utter delight, River drops down into a crouch and crawls toward him on her hands and knees, pith hat still nestled on top of her curls and firelight casting shadows on her bare skin. She settles between his legs, watching him with dark eyes. “Jealous?”

 

He huffs softly, fighting against the urge to cover himself with his hands. “Of what?”

 

Her eyes glitter in the dark and her clever fingertips trace a path up one of his legs, circling teasingly at his knee. He bites back a whimper. “Those artifacts had my full and undivided attention.” She takes her hand away and though he feels the loss keenly, he’s far more interested in what she does next – reaching for the roll kit next to their bed. “Do you want me to study you, Doctor? Uncover all your secrets?”

 

The Doctor licks his lips, watching her roll out the kit and reveal an entire arsenal of delicate brushes and chisels. She wants to use them on him, he realizes, his hearts leaping into his throat. She wants to study him like a damned artifact. And he wants to let her.

 

At his bitten off groan of approval, River smiles and kisses the inside of his thigh. “Just lie back and be still, honey. I’ll be gentle.” She winks and he really wants to hate how easily she guesses all his secrets but how can he when it leads to things like this? “Now,” she muses quietly, running a fingertip over her tools. “What to use first?” She glances at him, squinting. “Tough exterior, I think. I’ll need the chisel.”

 

He huffs.

 

River bites back a grin and selects her favorite, sliding it from its place and turning back to him. She has that look on her face – that archaeologist look, the one that says nothing is more important than understanding the piece of history beneath her hands. He used to get jealous in his last body, wondering why she never focused on him quite so intently. If only he’d known all he had to do was ask.

 

The cool tip of the chisel traces lightly over his skin and he shivers, watching in fascination as she works. River takes her time, working in silence and paying particular attention to his chest, right over his hearts. It feels good – soothing – and if he could tear his attention away from the sight of her he might have closed his eyes.

 

River presses her mouth to the space between his hearts, scraping with her teeth. He doesn’t try to stifle it this time, groaning aloud, and she beams triumphantly, running the chisel over the bite marks. “There it is,” she whispers, and her breasts brush against his chest as she leans up. The rosy, peaked buds of her nipples against his skin make him shudder as she mouths at his jaw. “The soft interior.”

 

She moves away, sliding down his body deliberately so he can feel every inch of her sweat-damp skin against his. He clenches his jaw, cold and bereft as she pulls back and puts away her chisel. She contemplates her kit for a long moment, tapping her fingers against her brushes before she makes a decision.

 

Crawling back toward him, she straddles his waist and he inhales sharply, fighting hard not to buck against her. Her core presses against the bare skin of his stomach, hot and slick and oh _fucking hell_ he hates her. “No, you don’t,” she murmurs, smiling. “Now let’s get rid of the cobwebs, hmm?”

 

The bristles on the brush she uses are soft and they don’t scrape at all as she dusts gently at his face. She starts at his forehead, tracing over the lines there and occasionally brushing against his hairline. She sweeps across his eyebrows and his eyelids, dusting his lashes. She traces over the bridge of his nose and makes broad swipes across his cheekbones. All the while, the Doctor never stops staring into her eyes. They’re as soft as the brush she wields, focused on her task. Her whole face is lined with this tender, unflagging attentiveness and he feels a troublesome lump forming in his throat the longer he looks at her.

 

“Old eyes,” she murmurs, sounding like she’s cataloguing her data in one of her notebooks. “Indicates a long, difficult life.” He swallows and her brush travels along his jaw and across his throat. “But a full life. One with family and friends.” Her lips touch his jaw again, just barely. “Great love.”

 

Unable to resist a moment longer, the Doctor presses a hand against the space between her shoulder blades and tries to pull her in, lifting his head to kiss her properly. River dodges him with a smile, shaking her head. “No touching. It’ll ruin the integrity of the survey.”

 

He sighs.

 

It draws her attention to his mouth and she uses the brush to trace over his lips. “A Scottish mouth if I ever saw one,” she decides. “Likely used to shout profanities and ward off predators.”

 

He sighs, biting back a string of exactly that sort of profanity when River shifts, dragging her wet sex across his abdomen and then his cock as she moves. She ignores him, humming to herself as she sweeps the brush in broad strokes across his collarbones and his chest. She pays particular attention to his nipples, teasing them until he squirms beneath her, that infuriating smirk on her face all the while.

 

“Two hearts, which narrows down the possible origins.”

 

The brush strokes down his chest and his abdomen, swirling across his navel. “The subject clearly didn’t eat much,” River muses, bending her head. She licks a long stripe across his stomach and the Doctor sucks in a breath, hands balling into fists. “Hmm… too much sugar in his tea.”

 

Too aroused to even gather the strength to glower, the Doctor merely blinks back at her when she lifts her head. The soft bristles whisper briefly across his hipbones but it’s so damned close to where he wants her that he can’t help lifting his hips helplessly. River tuts, skipping over the whole area to crawl back up again – sliding her slick folds along the length of his erection fucking deliberately _fuck_ – as she concentrates on his shoulders and his arms.

 

She tickles the inside of his elbows and studies his veins, muttering under her breath about possible species – some of them a bit insulting – but he can’t really focus on what she’s saying any more. He’s so hard he can’t even summon the words to beg. Unconcerned with his predicament, River studies his hands next, her brush delicate swiping across his knuckles and his palms. She pauses only briefly to kiss his wedding ring and he feels some of his frustration abate at the smile lingering at the corners of her mouth.

 

“The subject was married,” she whispers. “Devoted to another of his species for centuries. The ring indicates a culture of fidelity amongst mates.”

 

He curls his hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. River lets him for a moment, nuzzling her cheek against the back of his hand before she pulls away and crawls back down again. Between his legs now, she teases the brush along the insides of his thighs until he bites out her name in a low, pleading growl. “ _River_.”

 

She shushes him, the unmerciful wench.

 

The brush strokes along his balls and his hips jerk, lifting up into the air and silently begging for more contact, more pressure, Christ anything she’ll give him at this point. Teeth clenched, the Doctor feels River swirl the tip of her brush around the head of his cock and chokes out, “River, please -”

 

She takes the brush away. Damn her. Damn her to –

 

“Subject was in possession of working sexual organs -”

 

At the smirk in her voice, he bites out, “Not for fucking long.”

 

“Which suggests intercourse was necessary for procreation.”

 

He swallows.

 

River kisses his knee. Melting a little, the Doctor unclenches his jaw and breathes out through his nose. Instead of focusing on the heavy ache of his erection, he tries to concentrate on what River is doing – stroking the soft bristles of her little brush along his calves and around his ankles, then the bottoms of his feet. It tickles and he cringes away from her. She laughs softly and says, “Strong legs and able feet indicate a life accustomed to running. Probably from enemies. Or responsibility.”

 

He lifts his head to glower at her.

 

River tilts her head, watching him from beneath the brim of her pith hat, and drops the brush. His hearts leap, knowing it means she has completed her study. His whole body tenses in anticipation of what she might do next.

 

“Subject appears to be the last of a very rare species known as the Time Lords.” Her hands stroke along his calves and inner thighs as she moves slowly back up the length of his body. “This piece belongs in a museum.” She dips her head, her hot mouth slick against his hipbone. He stifles a groan. “But I think I’d like to keep him for my personal collection.”

 

Without warning, her hand wraps around his cock and strokes up. The Doctor squeezes his eyes shut and curses under his breath, useless jam at her touch. “Only one thing left to discover,” she says, her voice husky but dripping with mischief. Her thumb strokes back and forth over his slick head and the Doctor nudges his hips against her eagerly. “I need to know how old you are.”

 

If the feel of River’s clever hand around him had been unexpected, the shock of her mouth enveloping him is enough to fucking kill him. Head thrown back and body bowed, arching off the bedroll, the Doctor shouts and curses and doesn’t give a damn if every single one of her students hears him. River smirks around the length of him and slides all the way back up, tongue swirling around the head of his erection like a damned lolly, licking, licking – he quivers, a mess of nerve endings as the cool air in the tent dries the saliva on his cock.

 

“Christ, River,” he breathes, and feels her pointed tongue follow the thick vein on the underside of his erection. His eyes roll back in his head, and he feels his hips buck. River swallows back him down again, her hot, hungry mouth taking as much of him as she can. Her hands slide around and under, cupping his arse to hold him in place. She licks and sucks with dedicated enthusiasm and he knows somewhere in the mess of _fuck yes_ and _please_ and _River_ clouding his head that she has no interest in teasing him like she usually does. She is not River the lover right now. She is River the dedicated archaeologist, gathering her data.

 

He’s already so far over the edge thanks to her methodical teasing he knows it isn’t going to take much to set him off. He stares down at her, chest heaving and pupils blown wide, and feels frustrated that he can’t see her face. The fucking pith hat is in his way. He reaches out a trembling hand and knocks it away, pleased when her curls tumble free.

 

He buries his hands in them, brushing curls back from her face to see her properly, holding on for dear life as River lifts her head up and down over him. All the way up and then all the way back down to the fucking root. He hisses through his teeth, hips bucking and rolling under her. She hollows her cheeks in perfect, unflagging suction like she’s trying to force every last ounce of empirical evidence right out of him. Maybe she is.

 

His grip in her hair tightens but it isn’t to guide her – it’s to anchor _him_ , a vain attempt to keep himself from flying apart. River draws back entirely and he slips from her red, swollen mouth with an obscene _pop_. She drops her head again quickly, drawing his bollocks between her lips and sucking. Oh Christ, it’s too much. He can’t – he can’t breathe. His legs begin to shake and he tugs at her hair in warning, growling out gibberish all the while. Oh _fuck_ , River River _River_.

 

She takes him back into her mouth, slipping his cock between her slick lips and sliding down until he hits the back of her throat. Her green eyes burn into his and then – she swallows. Body pulled tight as a bowstring and hands clenched in the bed beneath him, the Doctor gasps and pants and curses in equal measure, rutting up up up until he bursts.

 

White light explodes behind his eyes and he closes them tightly, certain that she’s finally done it. She’s actually shagged him into his next regeneration. Maybe this time he won’t be such a hopeless sap for her. Or her damned archaeology. He isn’t counting on it. And then the white light fades and River is curled up on his heaving chest, her curls tickling his jaw. He swallows and listens to the pounding of his hearts, careening wildly against his ribcage as he struggles for breath.

 

“Over two thousand years old.” River licks her lips. “Subject is remarkably well preserved for his age.”

 

The Doctor snorts.


End file.
